Passion, Faith and Death

I pity the time traveller, because I too have learnt to fear deja vu, to know what it is to live a life afraid; afraid that all of this is temporary, the paralytic dread that all of this means nothing. You will wake up one day, and the last three years will have been nothing but a dream. I pity the time traveller, because I too know what it is to wake up adrift in time, the days turning into weeks into months, shrouded by a fog too dark to see through, pretending as if you were present for those lengths of time that only your body lived through. I pity the time traveller, because I too know what it is like to be given a power that you were told would save the world. I sit now a doubter - the world doesnt want to be saved and I, I am nothing but someone who was peddled false promises, fighting paradoxical thoughts. I pity the time traveller, the one who has witnessed their own death a thousand times, who has seen the infinite possibilities of a life in which they were never born, who th

What do they do when it's all too much - these little people under such a big sky? When they feel too much? How do they breathe in the too small rooms of houses when it feels like the walls are caving in and their lungs won’t work and everything is too fast and too slow all at once? When they forget what the stars look like? These little people with hearts all synchronous, thrumming like a message in their chest. Hearts built, back before steel and concrete and rigid rules. Hearts that pump an old stolen fire, that calls itself passion, through their little bodies. Little because their souls feel so big and their skin aches with want, the want to fade away like a ghost so everything it holds in can be free. What do they call that? Do they have words for it? Do they have words? Maybe they don’t need them, their hearts all in time, all sharing one mind as they beg with nothing but sound for a storm, for a wild thing. They are all wild things, each with a different but similar scream